


Intellectual Pretzels:  Death and All Things Considered

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-09-01
Updated: 2001-09-01
Packaged: 2019-05-15 23:06:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14799704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: "Well" Josh said, "death and all things considered, w're doing okay, right?"  Sequel toIntellectual Pretzels:  The Kun Pao Chicken Pact





	1. Intellectual Pretzels:  Death and All Things Considered

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

DISCLAIMER: Yes, sadly, they are not mine. They belong to Aaron Sorkin, NBC, and Warner Bros. Please don't sue me. I can't even pay for college right now. 

SUMMARY: "Well," Josh said, "death and all things considered, we're doing okay, right?" 

CATERGORY: Josh/Donna 

RATING: PG13 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Warning! A bit of an angst factor here. No main character death, but there is a passing of a secondary character of my own creation. It gets a bit emotional. The forwards at the beginning of each part are from Josh's point of view, in case there's any confusion. 

  


INTELLECTUAL PRETZELS: DEATH AND ALL THINGS CONSIDERED 

"Love makes intellectual pretzels of us all."   
-Sarah Bird, New York Times Magazine 

"Most humans have an almost infinite capacity for taking things for   
granted."   
-Aldous Huxley 

  


************************************************   
Over the past few days I have learned more than I could ever imagine I   
would. Not that I particularly thought my days of intellectual learning were past me; on the contrary, as Deputy Chief of Staff I learn some new, semi-ridiculous fact of government nearly every day. But if you talk about emotional toil, grief, and traumatic experiences...well, I've pretty much been around the block. 

A few times. 

It's a law of the universe we live in that people we love will die. I've become - however uncomfortably - accustomed to this. Losing my sister, my father, and very nearly my own life has hammered into me the painful message that we only have so long on this earth. That we're living on borrowed time. 

I never really got it, though. 

Maybe it was just that I was so focused on surviving each tragedy that I never paid attention to what it taught me. Pain was always the focal point of each incident, and it was too difficult for me to look beyond that. It was always happening to me, not around me. I was never in the passenger seat. 

But when someone you care about looses someone they love, it's different. It's like you're on the outside looking in. And you know that no matter what you tell them, it won't take the pain away. You know that the only thing you can do is just to be there to hold them when they cry, listen to them when they talk, and pull a blanket over them when they finally fall asleep. 

It teaches you something. It teaches you to hold on tight to each other, and to never - under any circumstances - let go. It teaches you that certain things come only once a lifetime, and that when they do, you have to grab them and hold on tight. It's all too easy to loose them forever. 

And it teaches you that you can never take stuff for granted. Not the wind, the rain, the stale coffee in the kitchen, or lipstick marks left on a glass. Especially not people. 

Definitely not love.   
*************************************** 

(Six Days Earlier) 

"...so what I'm saying is that I really don't think it's fair." Donna's voice drifts into my thoughts. Which, really, was just the study of a particular watermark on my office ceiling. Which in turn means that I was not paying one lick of attention to what Donna was saying. You'd think she'd be used to that by now. 

Obviously she's not, evidence of which is amply demonstrated by a rubber band viciously flicked in my direction. "Donna!" I yelp, barely moving my head out of the way in time to save my eyeball. 

Uh-oh. She's glaring at me. That's never good. 

"You weren't even listening to me." 

"Yes, I was!" I protest. Why, oh why, do I always have to dig myself in deeper with this stuff? 

"Really," she drawls. "What did I just say?" 

"That you think it's really unfair." Ha! At least I heard part of it.   
Take that! 

Her eyes narrow. "That what's unfair?" 

"Umm..." Shit. "That, uh," Shit. "That hot dogs come in packages of eight while hot dog buns come in packages of six?" That's it. A little ol' Lyman wit to smooth things over. 

"Josh!" 

Did I say smooth things over? I really meant to say 'make things worse'. 

"Well, it is!" I say, ever-so brilliantly defending my position. 

Hey, I'm a politician. What do you want from me? 

She sighs. "I'm leaving, Joshua." She stands. 

My heart stops for a second. Call it over-reaction, but I really don't like the phrase 'I'm leaving'. "Where are you going?" God, I didn't really sound that pathetic, did I? 

Her eyebrows raise. Guess I did sound pretty pathetic. "Home, Josh. I'm going to go home, take a shower, microwave dinner, and sleep. I'm not going to do work, I'm not going to think about work, understand? Do not call me with anything work-related. I will see you in the morning." 

"So I shouldn't count on a nice, steaming cup of coffee waiting for me on my desk tomorrow?" I say, trying one last shot at humor. 

Yeah, she's definitely glaring. "What was that, Josh? I'm sorry, I wasn't listening to you." And with that she turns on her heel and walks out of my office, slamming (yes, slamming) the door shut behind her. 

Holy backfire, Batman. 

Shit. 

Did I say that already? Let me say it again: Shit. I reach forward, grab my rolodex, and search for the name and number of that flower company that does the thing with tulips that she likes. 

I may be a jackass sometimes, but I know how to apologize. 

********* 

Jackass! Why, oh why, do I put up with him? 

Yeah, 'cause I don't know the obvious answer to *that* one. 

This sucks. I toss my purse and my keys on my oversized couch (my one extravagance in an otherwise dinky apartment) and head to my bedroom to change. It's not so bad living alone, not as bad as living with the Cat Lady. Just too bad I can't afford a bigger apartment, even with the raise that came through after Christmas. 

Let me tell you something, Leo McGarry can act as tough as the rest of them, but he's got a soft heart. He cares about every single one of the staff, even if he never says it. Though I suspect Josh had something to do with that raise, as well. 

Bastard. Cocky, arrogant, dimpled, swaggering, stupid, jackass, sexy bastard! 

It would be so much easier if I could just hate him. 

As it stands, I'm pretty pissed. I mean, really! It wasn't like I was rattling off the history of the Battle of Hastings! All I was doing was expressing my concern over some of the senior staff's attitude toward women. It's something that concerns me a bit, being a woman, and Josh's indifference only serves to illustrate my point. 

Sometimes it seems like the only reason there are women on the staff and in the Administration is to show that there *are* women on the staff and in the Administration. Like men can point to us and say "Look! They can file *and* they look good in a skirt!". Not to mention the fine line we're expected to walk between being feminine enough and being too feminine. 

Plainly put, it just sucks, and I felt like I needed to express my concerns. I know none of the senior staff is sexist, but sometimes it feels as though they're trying to 'protect' or 'watch out for' the female members of the staff, and occasionally underestimating them. I know it's something CJ battles with daily, and let me tell you, I have unlimited amounts of respect for her. Mostly for not having killed anyone yet. 

And the jackass couldn't even listen to me. Prime example! 

Ugh. 

Okay, all I want to do now is change into my pajamas, nuke some Bowl Appetite, make some tea, and relax on my couch. I love the couch. The couch is good. Praise Ikea. 

...And my phone rings. I finish changing and make a leap across my bed for it. If it's Josh, he will suffer a fate worse than death. So help me God, he will. "Donna Moss," I sigh. 

"...Donna? It's Jake." 

Okay, why is my brother calling me? And why does he sound so upset? "Jacob, what's wrong?" 

There's a small laugh with no humor in it. "Can't get anything past you, huh?" 

Okay, I know my brother, and if he's calling me and not using a ridiculous voice or pretending to be someone else, then something is wrong. And if he can't even make a joke, it's really bad. I hold my breath, with a feeling I'm not going to like this. 

"It's Mom," he said. I think my heart just stopped beating. "She's sick." 

"How sick? When did this happen? Why didn't she call me?" 

"Whoah, slow down, girl," he says, taking a deep, shaky breath. Oh, God, this can't be good. "She's been sick for a while now, and she never told any of us. Dad called me a few hours ago, Donna. She's in the hospital, and it's not good." His voice is breaking. 

This can't be happening. This isn't real, right? 

"What is it?" I ask, praying that it's not that bad, that's it's just an overreaction from Jake. 

Jake never overreacts. 

"Breast cancer." 

Oh, God. I can't breathe. 

"It's spread to her liver, and they think it's spreading to her brain. They have her hooked up to all kinds of stuff, but..." 

I feel sick. I think I'm going to pass out. This isn't real! This can't be happening! 

I can tell Jake's trying to keep back tears. His voice gets this husky sound to it. I remember from when his dog, Rusty, died. "Donna, you have to come home. You have to come home," he repeats. 

Somehow I manage to find my voice, gripping the bed mattress like I'm drowning. "I'll be there as soon as I can," I say, my voice sounded hollow. "I have to pack." 

"Yeah," he says, "call me with your flight information." 

"Where's Dad?" 

"He's with Mom. He won't move. I don't even think he can." 

I take a deep breath, trying to pull it together as best I can. God knows, Jake and Dad can't keep it together. "Okay, I'll be out there as soon as I can." 

"Okay. Love you, girl." 

"Yeah, you too," I say absentmindedly, hanging up the phone. 

I stand on shaky legs, utterly confused as to what to do next. I cross the bedroom to the closet and pull out my suitcase. I can't think, though. I don't know what to put in it. I don't know what to do. 

My mother is dying. 

I feel a sharp claw of pain in my throat, and I collapse on the floor, my hand pressed into my mouth as though I can stop the pain, make the sobs go away. 

My mother is dying. She's dying. She was sick, and she didn't even tell me. 

Oh, God. I can't do this. 

********** 

I'm going to have to find a new florist. I don't think my old one will let me come back. Ever. 

Hey, they said they were open late. They didn't say that they couldn't deliver late. Then they wanted to stick the flowers in this little freezer and deliver them tomorrow, but by then they'd be, well...not fresh. If I'm buying something, damn it, it's going to be good. 

So that would be why I'm standing outside Donna's apartment building holding a vase full of purple and white tulips. Please, God, just don't let her throw something at me when she opens the door. Please, God, just let her *open* the door. 

Maybe if I told her that I remember what she was talking about now... 

Nah, better stay away from that. And I would like to state for the record that I have never underestimated Donna. Well, maybe when I hired her, but that first week during the campaign she proved her metal, and since then I have given her the exact workload that I know she can handle. 

But I get her point. 

I still shouldn't bring it up, though. Okay, I'm at her door. I've been standing here for about a minute (no security system...I don't like her living in this building). I should knock. Really. Why do I feel nervous? It's not like I'm picking up a girl for the prom; I'm apologizing to my assistant! 

I raise my fist and knock on the door. Okay, well, that wasn't so hard. There's no answer. I knock again. Still no answer. 

Okay, her car's parked outside. I know she's here. Is she avoiding me? I knock again, and the door jerks open. 

What the hell? 

Donna's standing there in her pajamas, her hair's sloppily pulled back, her eyes are red, and mascara is streaked down her cheeks. I feel my heart jump. What's wrong? I couldn't have upset her that much, could I? 

She waves me inside without a word about the rather large arrangement of flowers I'm holding. She snuffles a bit and turns around toward her bedroom door, through which I can see clothes strewn across the floor and an open suitcase sitting on the bed. 

Oh, God. What the hell? 

"I was going to call you," she's saying, "I need a few days off. I have to go home." She runs a hand through the top of her hair and snuffles again. 

I shut the door behind me and lock it, beginning to get an idea of what's going on. If she has to go home, something must be wrong with her family. I walk into the small kitchen and place the flowers on the counter, crossing quickly back into the living room. 

Donna's still standing there, staring at nothing, her hand hovering over the top of her head. I recognize all too well that blank look on her face. Shock. It's the face you get when there's something terribly wrong, but you don't want to think about it. You don't want to process it. It doesn't seem real. 

I reach out and gently touch her shoulder. "Donna?" I ask softly, "What's wrong?" 

She starts, nearly jumping out of her skin, and whips around to face me. "Josh? Where the hell did you come from?" 

Okay, this is bad. "You just let me in," I explain, gesturing towards to door. 

"Oh," she shakes her head, "I...I don't remember." 

"Why don't you sit down and tell me what happened?" I ask, tryin to steer her towards the couch. 

"No, I need to pack," she replies, slipping out of my grasp and darting towards the bedroom. 

Okay, now I'm really worried. She's pretty out there. I've never seen her this way. 

What happened? 

I enter the bedroom, side-stepping piles of shirts and pants, and survey the wreckage Donna's caused in the attempt to pack one suitcase. She's flinging things out of her closet, talking to herself, and brushing the hair back from her face that keeps falling forward. "Donna..." I start. 

"Have you seen my toothbrush?" Her eyes dart toward the bathroom. "I must not have grabbed it yet." 

She disappears through the door to the bath, then reappears clutching a green plastic toothbrush. I recognize it from when she stayed a few nights in my apartment after the shooting. The errant thought that she needs a new toothbrush runs through my mind. 

That's it. I take a few more steps forward and grab her shoulders. "Donna! Will you please tell me what's wrong?" 

She blinks and stares at me for a heartbeat, then lowers her head and takes a few deep breaths. I'm not really sure if I should say anything, so I just stand there, my hands resting on the top of her arms. "She was sick, and she didn't tell me," Donna murmurs. She sniffs and lifts her head to look at me, and I can see the tears forming in her eyes. "She never told me, not any of us. Not a word. She didn't look well when I went home for Christmas, but she said it was just the flu. But it's not the flu, Josh, she has breast cancer, and now she's dying." 

I feel my stomach drop at the mention of cancer, the memory of my father's passing still pretty strong. "Who, Donna?" I asked, though I knew who it had to be. 

"My mother." Ah, hell. She's crying, and I pull her into a hug. I wish I could just shut out the world and tell Donna that it was just a bad dream, that it's not real. 

God, I wish I could make her stop hurting. 

But I can't. 

So I hold her while she cries, knowing full well that there'll be many more tears to come, and that I can't make it stop. When she stops crying, I clear off her bed and make her lie down to get some sleep, promising her that I won't leave and that we'll work out her flight in the morning. 

I watch her crawl beneath the quilt on her bed; the quilt that her mother had made for Donna when she had been a child. Donna had brought the quilt over to my apartment while I was recovering, saying that it was good luck. While we were waiting in the emergency room Christmas Eve, Donna jokingly told me that she should've left it on the couch for a little longer. I had told her to ask her mom to make me my own when she went home the next day, only half kidding. 

I sigh, grab an extra blanket out of Donna's closet, and head for the couch. It's started to rain, and I sit in the darkness for a minute, listening to the sound of the drops hitting the glass in the living room. I've only met her once, but Donna's told me a lot about her mother, and she sounds like an incredible woman. 

She'd have to be, to raise someone like Donna. 

Tomorrow's Sunday, thank God, so I won't need to rush home in the morning. I'll call Leo tomorrow, too, and let the rest of the staff know what's going on so no rumors start. I didn't leave anything on in my apartment, did I? 

I settle in on the couch, making a mental list of things to be taken care of in the morning. It feels like an odd reversal; usually Donna's the one taking care of me. I just wish that there were more that I could do. 

I wish I could shield her from this. 

But I can't. 


	2. Intellectual Pretzels:  Death and All Things Considered 2

 

See part 1 for disclaimers and info, please. 

INTELLECTUAL PRETZELS: DEATH AND ALL THINGS CONSIDERED 

Part 2 (See part one for disclaimers and info) 

"Love makes intellectual pretzels of us all."   
-Sarah Bird, New York Times Magazine 

"Most humans have an almost infinite capacity for taking things for granted."   
-Aldous Huxley 

***************************** 

Isn't it strange how we spend so much time allegedly searching for love, for a connection with someone "special", but when that connection actually comes along, we do everything to avoid it? When it comes right down to it, most people are terrified of love. 

Myself included. 

I spent a good deal of my life watching my parents, seeing the wonderful relationship they had, that...something...that just existed between them. The truth of the matter was that Sarah Mitchell was just as crazy for Noah Lyman as he was for her, right up until the day he died. And she's still nuts about him, even though he's not here anymore. I knew at a very young age that I wanted exactly what my parents had. 

That didn't mean I was going to get it. 

By the time the thing with Mandy had ended, I was pretty sure I would never find it. Not that I had made that much of an effort. My mother had once told me that to love someone that much, you have to be willing to sacrifice part of yourself, part of your soul. I wasn't really sure that I could handle that, as much as I wanted it. And, yeah, I was scared of giving away that much of myself. I've been through so much loss in my life, that I guess I'm just wary of exposing myself to more pain. 

But there's a time when you have to stop running away from fate. I can't run any longer. I don't want to. 

And quite frankly, the thought of love still somewhat terrifies me. But I've realized that I want it more than I fear it, now. I can't avoid resolving this...thing...with Donna any longer. I'm too tired to keep fighting it. 

I'm in love with her. 

And that's just the way it is. 

************************** 

I open my eyes to the brightness of the Sunday morning sunshine streaming through my bedroom window. The large windows were the one feature of this apartment that I actually liked when I signed the lease. It seems like such a bright, hopeful morning that for a moment I forget that my life is falling apart. 

Then I remember, and the sunlight no longer seems cheeful, but harsh instead. I will never comprehend how cruel life can be at times. When one minute you're searching for tea bags in the kitchen cabinets and the next you learn that the man you love was shot. 

When one minute the world seems just fine and the next you learn that the foundation your life was built on is crumbling. 

My mother is dying. 

My mother, the source of strength and love that I've always relied on being endless. That woman's survived more broken hearts than a room full of Marilyn Monroes. She raised three children to be intelligent, caring, and responsible adults, and she raised myself and my older brother pretty much on her own. 

See, my real father split right after David (my younger brother) was born. For the first three years after he left, we'd receive birthday cards with ten-dollar bills in them. He had the nerve to sign them alongside the signature of the woman he'd run off to marry, leaving my mother a divorced woman stranded in Madison, Wisconsin, with three kids to feed and clothe. 

We'd keep the money, but Jake and I threw out the cards. 

I suspect Jake might have missed him, though he'd fervently deny it if you asked. To be honest, I never did. I was ten by the time he finally left, and by then my father had become a shadowy figure in my life, a phantom who worked as long as he could to avoid coming home to the family he didn't want. 

To David, it didn't matter, though babies are sensitive if something's out of place, and I think that stayed with him. At sixteen, he's got the heart that bleeds for everyone, and I can't even tell you the number of robins with broken wings he's rescued. Whenever he's upset, he'll climb the old oak tree in our back yard and sit there until my mother coaxes him down with hot chocolate. 

My father's departure hit my mother pretty hard. Sometimes I think Jake's sense of humor and my ability to spout out ridiculous amounts of knowledge were evolved in the effort to distract her from her disappointment. She'd always had faith that he'd turn around, change his mind, be the man she thought he could be. When he left, my mother would stand before the mirror in her room, staring at the fine lines around her eyes and the pregnancy weight she'd never lost, silent tears running down her face. 

After that, there was never a piece of junk food in the house. Meals were healthy and well-balanced. My mother started running every morning, twice around our four-block neighborhood. She once told me that as she ran, she could fee everything negative slipping away, the air rushing past her stripping off the layers of bad luck that had surrounded her life. 

It must've been true. My mother droped to a size eight and begain to shine with some sort of inner radiance. She'd always been an attractive woman, but she'd become beautiful. And it wasn't really cosmetic. She hadn't even noticed the lost weight until I pointed out to her how loosely her clothes were fitting. 

We'd walk down the street, David cradled in her arms, and Jake and I would laugh at all the men who'd stop and stare. A neighbor who knew our story once shook his head and said to a friend, "Who could leave that?" 

But Mom never noticed any of them. She focused on us, driving us to Green Bay to stay with her girlfriend from college and see Packers games, making us the best costumes for Halloween, and letting us stay up late on weekends so we could watch scary movies together. I don't know why I'm remembering all this now, but I can't seem to stop the flood of memories. 

It was a day in late spring when my mother finally took notice. I was thirteen, Jake seventeen, and three-year-old David was tottering around on still unsteady legs. We'd gone to the park for ice cream, and David's melted while he studied newly bloomed hyacinths and irises beside the bench. 

"Donna," my mother said, "do you see that man over there - the one with the golden retirever?" 

"Uh-huh," I said, mint-chocolate chip dripping down my fingers. A tall, handsome man was playing fetch with a golden-haired dog not too far away. He kept glancing in our direction. I knew why. 

"He keeps staring at me." Mom sounded confused, crossing her legs in the flowing skirt and more fitted blouse I'd made her buy. 

"Yup," I said. Beside me, Jack snickered. 

Mom reached down to pry a dirty twig out of David's little grip. "Why do you think he's staring?" she asked. 

At this Jake outright laughed, and I couldn't control my grin. "Mom," he sighed, "have you looked in the mirror lately?" 

My mother blushed and stood to smooth out her skirt. "Well, I'm going over there to tell him just how unacceptable his stares are." 

Jake couldn't stop laughing despite my elbow to his ribs, and I watched my mother as she strode across the green grass, her long blonde hair flowing out behind her. David was cooing at a buterfly, and suddenly the oddness of life struck me, and I couldn't help laughing right along with Jake. 

A day later, Annabella Dean (formerly Harrington) began to date Alexander Moss, and a week later she knew she was in love. We all instantly liked Alexander's dry humor and pedantic ways, and how he would pick up David automatically whenever the toddler cried. We knew he was 'the one' for Mom when he playfully poked her in the ribs one night as she was fixing dinner and said "Add some more butter to those mash potatos, will ya? I love you, but you're too skinny for a real woman. You need to put some fat on those perfect bones." 

My mother just laughed and kissed him, and a month later they were married. It was a unanimous vote to change our names from Harrington to Moss. After that, it only felt natural to call him 'Dad'. Pretty soon our biological father was only thought of as a ghost to blame things on when they went wrong around the house. If a faucet in the kitchen dripped, or an appliance went out, it was Simon's fault. "Damn Simon, he bought that," or "Simon installed that, damn him." 

Alexander is my father by all real meaning of the word, and all I want right now is to just curl up in his arms and cry, and let him cry, too. I want to see Jake and David, and I want to see my mother most of all. I can't let her leave without saying goodbye. 

I sit up with a groan, throwing back my quilt. How'd I get to bed? Hadn't I been packing? Next to my dresser, my suitcase and two duffle bags are sitting, neatly packed. I don't remember doing that. Absently, I wonder if I managed to schedule a flight, and if so, when is it? 

I stand and stretch, seeing that my alarm clock only says seven in the morning. After brushing my teet with a spare toothbrush (must've packed my green one) and washing the mascara streaks off my face, I wander into the kitchen in seach of my cordless phone. I stop in my tracks, seeing a very familiar black wool pea coat sitting on the table. It's the pea coat that had belonged to Josh's grandfather on his mother's side when he'd been in the Navy. It's kind of worn in places, so Josh only wears it casually. 

Why is Josh's coat in my kitchen? And there are flowers on my counter. Purple and white tulips. The same kind Josh got me for my birthday. 

What the hell? 

I walk into the living room and see a folded blanket on the edge of the couch, the phone sitting on top of it and right next to what I'm pretty sure is Josh's cell phone. When was Josh here? 

My heart nearly stops as I hear the door open, but it's Josh himself that steps through, not a criminal breaking into my apartment. He's toting a brown paper bag that smells good, some Starbucks coffee, and my extra set of keys. "Hi," he says, rubbing his shoulder with his free hand, "I think I left my coat here." 

"Hi," I reply, not really sure of what to say. This is all a bit confusing. "It's, ah, in the kitchen." 

He hefts the paper bag. "I ran over to my apartment to change and got breakfast," he says, then seeing the expression on my face, adds "I came over last night. To apologize, and you were..." 

I shake my head. "I don't remember." 

He sets the bag, coffee, and keys down and stands in front of me, his hand on my arm right above my elbow. He's in jeans and a Harvard t-shirt, and he smells like that cologne CJ and I got him for his birthday. It took nearly an hour of sniffing to settle on that particular scent. "You were pretty upset, Donna, and I think you might have been in shock." 

"I seem to do a lot of that," I say, a little overwhelmed. "I just..." I can't finish because my throat feels so tight, and even if I wanted to stop the tears I don't think I can. The pain wells up in me, forming this little knot in the center of my chest, and I thank God that Josh is there to catch me, because I don't have the strength to stand. 

After a few minutes I manage to gain control over the sobs, and I realize with a little embarrassment just how tightly I was clutching on to him. But his arms feel just as tight around me, and despite the chill October air he seems so warm. I just want to stay like this, make the outside world disappear, but I know I can't. 

I pull away, but he holds on to me a moment longer, and he kisses my forehead. If I could feel anything right now, I'd probably be ecstatic. But I'm so numb inside that all I can do is smile slightly. "Thank you," I manage, my voice a little husky from so much crying. 

He looks at me for a heartbeat, then drops his arms to his side. "I scheduled a flight to Madison for you at ten. And I contacted Human Resources for a temp, called Leo and let him know you were taking some time off," he says, as if rattling off a mental list, "called your brother to let him know when your flight gets in, and I packed some of your stuff." 

I blink. That explains the luggage by my dresser. How could I not have heard him this morning? I guess I was pretty out of it. "You packed my stuff for me?" 

"Well, some stuff. I stayed away from personal items like makeup and underwear. You were just kind of tossing things around last night." 

I shake my head, a little astonished. "Who are you and what have you done with Joshua Lyman?" 

Josh shrugs with a little smirk. "You'll be getting a ransom note in a few days. Seriously, though, I couldn't sleep, so I just thought I'd do what I could to help." 

I can't come up with a reply that doesn't involve me crying again, so I change the subject. "Where did the flowers come from? The tulips in the kitchen?" 

It's Josh's turn to blink in surprise. "You really don't remember, do you?" 

I shake my head. 

"I, ah, came over last night to apologize for not listening to you at the office yesterday." 

"You brought me flowers in person to apologize?" Damn it, I am *not* going to start crying again. 

Josh shrugs. "The flower shop said they were open late, but they didn't tell me that their delivery guy goes home at five." 

"Like the rest of the normal working world?" 

Josh smiles, and he looks a little relieved that I can still crack a joke. "Hey, you'll get normal hours just as soon as I do." 

"So you brought me flowers, made my arrangements for me, and brought me breakfast?" 

He looks a little uncomfortable. "Well...yeah." 

"Thank you." 

He gets that one look in his eyes, the one that usually makes me feel like a heroin in some cheesy romance novel, and hands me the paper bag. "Eat your bagel." 

I don't think Fabio ever used that line. He still looks a bit uncomfortable that I found him out for the nice guy he really is. I decide I can use the distraction of humor. "Softie," I say as I sit down. 

"Shut up." 

"And you brought me coffee. This should be a thing. You should bring me coffee every day." 

"Donna..." 

"I mean it, Josh. I deserve it after putting up with you." 

"Yes, you do," he says softly. I look up in surprise with mouthful of bagel. He's intently studying the carpet. 

I swallow. "Okay, see, that right there? I was trying to lighten the mood, and you have to go and be all sweet." My voice sounds a bit shaky to my own ears. 

Josh's head quivers as he laughs, and when he looks back up, he's smiling with that look again. "Well, I'll try to rectify that in the future. No more Mister Nice Guy." 

"No, we'll keep that identity secret. By day you're Josh Lyman, terror of the West Wing and danger to Republicans everywhere, and by night you're Mister Nice Guy, helping little old ladies across the street and giving flowers to your wonderful assistant." 

"Eat your bagel." 

"I still say you're a softie." 

"Shut up. Eat your bagel." 

****************************** 

I should really go now. 

Airports are really not my favorite place. I liked them just fine until I had to wait on a flight to Connecticut for my father's funeral. Since then, I haven't been too fond of them. I already saw Donna to her flight, I watched her board the plane, and I waited by the window until the plane actually took off. And I'm still sitting here. 

The plane left twenty minutes ago. 

Here's something only a select few know about me: I'm a worrier. I worry about the people I care for. And I can't help but worry about Donna right now. I've been here before, I know what this is like. That's why I tried to take care of as many things as possible for her, even packing her bags. 

I stayed well away from Donna's underwear drawer, though. I had once asked my father for advice on women, and he'd told me "Joshua, just keep away from underwear drawers, purses, and for the love of God, put down the toilet seat." 

I miss my father. 

I miss him a lot, and there's not a single day when I don't think of him. I've learned to cope with it. But sometimes his loss hits me so hard it nearly takes my breath away. 

This is one of those times. 

I'd give anything in the world if Donna didn't have to feel this way. But she will; we all do at somepoint, I guess. The important thing is to let her know that she's not alone. 

That, and to pray for the miracle recovery of Annabella Moss. 

I haven't prayed in so long, though. I can't remember the last time I went to Temple. I can't remember the last time I thought God was actually listening. Hell, I don't even know if I believe in God, or if our lives are just part of some random, chaotic universe where nobody really knows what's going on. 

At times like these, I tend to think it's the latter. 

"Josh?" 

I know that voice. "Sam?" I squint up at an equally puzzled Sam Seaborn, standing over me and surrounded by luggage. "What the hell are you doing here?" 

Sam looks pointedly at said luggage. "Seattle, remember? I had to go see-" 

"Right, right. Your mom, I forgot." Sam's mother, Karen, recently moved to Seattle in a post-Norman-renewal sort of thing. I think she wanted to take up glass blowing or something. 

Sam raises an eyebrow at me. "So I take it you didn't come to pick me up." 

"No, but I'll give you a ride," I say, standing and throwing one last look out the window. 

"Josh?" Sam asks as I help him with his bags. 

"Yeah?" 

"Why are you here?" 

"I'll tell you in the car." 

*************** 

God, this plane ride is unbearable. 

I feel like I'm stuck in No Man's Land, like I'm in between realities. On one hand, I really just want to be home right now, with my family, but I've got another hour or so to go. And on the other... 

Well, on the other hand, there's Josh. 

I could see him standing beside the waiting room window, watching for the plane to take off. I could see the expression of concern that stayed on his face, and I could tell by the way he folded his arms and leaned against the concrete wall that he wouldn't budge until he was sure I was safely in the sky. 

I felt more in love with him in those few minutes then I have the entire three years I've known him, even though I was pretty much head over heels from the first. 

I know I have to face this reality, I know I'm going to loose my mother. But is it such a crime to want nothing more than to crawl into Josh's arms and let the rest of the world fade away? 

I sigh, and decide I should probably get some sleep now. 

God knows I won't get any at home. 

*********************** 

"Wow." 

"Yeah," I say, taking the right exit to Sam's apartment building. 

"How is she?" 

I shrug. "About how you'd expect. It's not easy to begin with, but the fact that Donna's mother had kept it a secret..." 

Sam nods. "Yeah. How much time did you give her off?" 

"As much as she needs. I've been through this before, Sam. If I had a choice, I'd go back in time and skip the New Hampshire primary. If I'd known then that it would be the last time I'd..." Suddenly my throat feels tight. "Well, I'd have skipped it." 

Sam looks at a loss for words. "Yeah," is all he says. 

Traffic's pretty bad, so we sit in a not-quite-uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. The maple trees lining this road have turned a beautiful reddish-orange shade. This is the one time of year that makes me yearn for Connecticut. Mom always gets into a baking frenzy when autumn comes, blaming it on the harvest spirit of New England. Our neighbors have an apple orchard, and every year they make this incredible apple cider that Dad used to drink by the gallon. 

I find myself wondering what Wisconsin is like in the fall. 

Donna and I once exchanged tales of home on a long Air Force One flight. She told me how her mother makes huge batches of pumpkin-shaped sugar cookies and dispenses them to neighborhood children. How she'd make comfort quilts for women who's husbands passed away, or children who had nightmares, stuffing the lining with dried lavender or basil. Laughing, Donna said her mother could have made a killing as an herbalist. 

I think I would really like Donna's mother. I wish I'd gotten to know her. "I wish I were with her right now." Did I say that out loud? 

Sam just smiles. I resist the urge to smack him. "I bet you do," he says. That smile has turned distinctly smug. 

"How's your mom doing in Seattle?" Please, God, can we change the subject? 

"Fine," he says, "she's working with a local glass-blowing company. And she's painting and writing a novel." 

I always liked Karen Seaborn. She has this inexaustable source of creative energy, and just as large a sense of humor. I went home with Sam one weekend to go boating (and believe me, I will never go boating again), and Karen was remodeling three rooms at once. Sam said his house was always in a constant state of metamorphosis. 

I really don't understand how a man could be married to someone like Karen and be unfaithful. Maybe I've just been influenced more than I thought by my parents' marriage. At any rate, as much as I respect Norman Seaborn, Karen deserves better. 

"What's the novel about?" 

Sam shrugs, "I really couldn't tell you." 

I smile at that, knowing how Karen is. 

"So, have you talked to Leo about Donna?" Sam asks, returning to the subject I'd tried to get away from. 

"Yeah," I sigh, "I filled him in. He knows what's going on." 

Sam looks surprised. "Really?" 

Suddenly I realize that we're not on the same plane here. And then I realize what he's talking about. "Sam..." I say, and there's no mistaking the warning in my voice. 

"Ah, so you haven't broached *that* subject yet." I'm going to reach over and wipe that smug smile off his face with my knuckles, I swear to God I am. 

"There is no subject *to* be broached, Sam," I say, perhaps a bit too firmly. Then I remember the way it felt to hold Donna while she cried this morning, and how good it felt to know that I could take care of her. I remember the look on her face as she turned to wave goodbye from the terminal at the airport. 

Yeah, I've got it pretty bad. 

I guess my expression must've been mirroring my thoughts. Sam stares at me expectantly. "Josh?" 

"Shut up, Samuel." 

"I'm just saying..." 

"Shut up." 

"Sure thing." 

I resolve to talk to Leo as soon as I get up the guts to. 

Which could definitely be a while. 


	3. Intellectual Pretzels:  Death and All Things Considered 3

 

SEE PART ONE FOR DISCLAIMERS AND INFO 

INTELLECTUAL PRETZELS: DEATH AND ALL THINGS CONSIDERED 

PART 3 

"Love makes intellectual pretzels of us all."   
-Sarah Bird, New York Times Magazine 

"Most human beings have an almost infinite capacity for taking things for granted."   
-Aldous Huxely 

********************** 

I've never been one to place much stock in religion. I don't really know why, exactly. I mean, my grandfather was imprisoned in a concentration camp because of his beliefs. I can't even begin to imagine the living hell that he went through. I think because of this, his faith always held an edge of grave seriousness to it, and my father inherited part of that. So the question is, why haven't I? 

A topic which I have - of course - discussed with my mother at great length. I discuss everything with my mother. Well, everything but what I think might hurt her (like my PTSD), which she manages to find out through her little spy network regardless. Anyway, the point here is that she told me that it's because I've always believed that I can change things myself. Which - according to her - is also the root of all my guilt, stress, and other psyciatric problems. I believe I can handle everything myself, and when I can't, I get upset. 

When I asked her what my alleged stubborness had to do with not believing in God, she said to me that I've always held the belief that it would make me weak to rely on other people (even God) to take care of me. She told me that after my sister died, I tried to overcompensate for my guilt by trying my best to take care of everyone around me and denying anyone else the chance to return the favor. Including God. 

I think my mother would've had a brilliant career as a therapist. 

Naturally, at the time I didn't quite believe her. I'm forever and always underestimating my mother's knowledge of me. I had replied rather haughtily to her that it wasn't true. After all, I'd let Donna help me after the...thing...hadn't I? I mean, she practically took up residence in my apartment, and she was there for every shaky step during my recovery. 

All my mother said in reply was "Now, Joshua, what do you think that means?" 

I didn't have an answer then. I do now, though. 

I think God was trying to tell me something. 

**************************** 

The October nights are bit chillier in Wisconsin than I remember. 

I pull my sweater a little closer over my shoulders as I stare up through the leaves of the oak tree at the few stars that are visible. I always loved to sit out here at night, on the back patio. Dad bought Mom a new set of table and chairs for Christmas. My mother and I share the ability to cry at the drop of a hat, but when he brought her out here Christmas morning, she seemed a little more misty-eyed than usual. We all attributed this to the case of the flu she claimed to have. 

If only I'd known the truth then. 

The sliding glass door opens and shuts again with a hiss. Jake steps out into the chill evening and hands me a mug of hot chocolate. It's the family therapy drink. I nod my thanks, and he sits down across from me, lighting a cigarette. 

"I thought you quit smoking," I say. 

"I thought you quit drinking," he replies, looking pointedly at the four empty beer bottles stacked beside my chair. 

I shrug. "Extenuating circumstances. Besides, two were David's." 

He stares at me in surprise. "You drank with our sixteen year-old brother?" 

I sigh. "He needed something to help him sleep, and it's better than drugs, Jake. I know David would never do that," I say, cutting him off as he opens his mouth to protest, "but you know how grief and pain affects people. I've seen it first hand, and if David's going to do something, then I'd rather it be where I can keep an eye on him, okay?" 

After a moment's pause, he nods. "You're right, I'm sorry." He exhales, careful to blow the smoke away from me. 

"Is Dad still at the hospital?" I ask because I can't stand the quiet. We both know he's still there, and we both know he won't leave until the inevitable happens. 

"Yeah," is all Jake says. He lowers his head until his forehead is nearly touching his clasped fist, smoke trailing up through his hair. Absently, I note that he needs a haircut. 

I take a sip of my hot chocolate, grateful for the warmth as it travels down my throat. I study the mug in the porch light. It says "Daughter" in purple, scrolling letters and then some sort of Hallmark-ish type saying about daughters beneath it. Mom had put it in an Easter basket one year and filled it with chocolate eggs. 

I lower it carefully onto the table's glass surface with a sigh. Closing my eyes, I rub my tmeples and attempt to erase this afternoon from memory. If only I could. 

"Fuck," Jake mutters. 

I heartily agree. 

It was more than a shock to see my mother lying in that hospital bed, so pale and thin. She's lost most of her hair through treatment this summer, so Dad brought in a few of her favorite silk kerchiefs for her. She seems so frail, not at all who she should be. It's just not right. Anna Moss is the most vibrant woman I know; she's always been so full of life and energy. 

And now she's just fading away. 

God, it was because of her that I even made it to New Hampshire. She was upset that I'd been seeing Adam in the first place, and when I dropped everything to move in with him all she could do was shake her head in disappointment. She knew what he was like at a glance, having been through his type before. 

But, of course, there's no telling that to a woman who thinks she's in love. How could I have possibly seen through the hormonal haze to the fact that Adam was exactly like my father? How could I have known that I was just convenience, that I was the flavor of the month and an easy source of Med school funding? 

The night I finally realized that Adam didn't love me - that I was wasting my time on nothing - I drove to my mother's house. I sat out here, on the back patio, and I cried for the loss of all my self-made illusions. I cried for my own foolishness and for my naivety. 

My mother came outside, handed me hot chocolate, and sat down beside me. "You need to get out, Donna. You need to leave the cage." 

I frowned in confusion at her. "What do you mean?" 

"Donna, you know I was born in Bar Harbor, Maine. Everyone knows that. How do you think I ended up in Wisconsin?" 

I shook my head and shrugged. "I don't know. You never told me." 

My mother smiled. "My boyfriend of three years had dumped me. I was   
heartbroken. So the next day I stole two hundred dollars from my mother and bought a bus ticket. I didn't know where I wanted to go, but I'd heard things about the Midwest. I'd heard that the sky was so big you could lose yourself in it." 

"So you ended up here, married to another man that broke your heart," I   
said, blowing my nose on the tissue she handed me. 

Mom shrugged. "That doesn't matter, sweetie. Look at what I got in return. I have you and Jake and David," pausing, she gestured towards the house, "and what do I care if Simon left? I got the house as alimony, and I found a man who loves me, Donna. I have everything I wanted. I chose not to wait around for fate, but instead to take it into my own hands." 

"And you think I should do the same?" I asked. 

Mom pulled me into a hug. "I know you should," she said, "That doesn't mean that I won't miss you terribly, and it doesn't mean that you're not welcome to stay. I just want you to be happy, Donna. You deserve it. And who am I to keep you from your destiny?" 

I just laid my head on her shoulder and laughed. 

"Alexander's put some money in your bank account for you. It's not much, but it's more than what I had, and it'll last you long enough. And you know if you get in a bind you can call and we'll wire you more." 

Still unable to speak, I nodded. 

She released me. "Go find yourself, Donna." 

I left the next day, packing up all my clothes and the personal belongings I couldn't leave behind. For some reason, I thought I should go see New England. Mom had gone west; I felt I needed to go east in return. I was headed towards Maine, actually. I'd never been to Bar Harbor. It was when I stopped at a gas station in upstate New York that I saw a newpaper that would forever change my life. 

It featured an article on the Bartlet for America campaign. 

And the rest, as they say, is history. 

I drain the last bit of hot chocolate as Jake finishes his last cigarette. I stand slowly, bending over first to pick up the beer bottles and throwing one last look at the stars. "I'm going inside to try and get some sleep," I say, even though I know damn well I won't. 

"Yeah," Jake replies. He follows me back through the sliding glass door and into the house. The heat is on inside, and it should feel warm to me, cozy even. But it's cold that I feel, the coldness that comes from knowing something is missing that can never be replaced. 

For the first time I fully realize that my mother will never set foot in this house again. 

The breeze outside picks up into an actual wind, and the leaves falling from the oak tree sound like rain as they collect in piles on the slate tile. I slide the door closed and have a sudden wish to be one of the leaves; an empty, dry thing that can float away and far above everything on this earth. 

Away from reality. 

************************ 

I rub my forehead with a sigh, staring at a page from a file I'm not really reading. I'm not even sure what I'm supposed to be doing right now. I'm also a little wired and restless from all the coffee I've managed to convince the temp to bring me. 

Now I know why Donna never brings me coffee. I'm bad enough normally.   
That, and she knows I'm not supposed to have much caffeine. After the   
surgery and all. 

I give up on the file and set it aside with a sigh. I think it might have been the trade defecit thing, but I can't bring myself to care that much. I open my mouth to shout for another cup of coffee, but then I remember I sent Amy home half an hour ago. She seemed relieved and a little scared as she snatched up her purse and fled the West Wing. I hope she comes back. I think I scared her, though, which is not out of the realm of possibility. 

I miss Donna. 

I also think I might very well be in love with Donna. Needless to say, it is a thought which has been occupying most of my mental faculties recently. Between work, figuring out how I feel about Donna, and worrying my head off about Donna, my palate's been pretty full. 

So of course I called my mother. 

I didn't mention anything to her about my possible feelings for Donna, but I filled her in on the situation with Annabella. There'd been a few moments of silence on the other end, and I know know we both were thinking about Dad. 

About Dad, and about Joanie. 

"So," my mother had finally said, "how quickly do you think I can get to Wisconsin?" 

I was surprised at Mom's offer, but then again, I knew I shouldn't be.   
Mom's just like that. If she takes a liking to somebody, there's a limited list of things she *won't* do to help them. As far as she's concerned, friends are the same as family. 

And Mom adores Donna. 

So I finalized her travel plans for her, and made her swear to call me as soon as she got there. So now I'm not only worried about Donna, I'm worried about my mother, who's en route to Wisconsin to be with Donna so that I can stop worrying in the first place. 

Yeah. Guess who's not getting any sleep tonight? 

There's a knock on my door, and I look up in surprise to see Abigail Bartlet standing in the doorway. I shoot to my feet. "Evening, m'am." 

She smiles. "Evening, Josh. Sit down, for heaven's sake." 

"Yes, m'am," I say, pulling out a guest chair for her before I sit back   
down. 

The First Lady's silent for a minute, then speaks softly. "Charlie told me about Donna's mother." 

I nod simply, waiting for her to continue. 

"How is she?" 

I shrug slightly. "About how you'd expect," I say for the umpteenth time today. "Donna practically worshipped her mother." 

Abbey cocks her head to one side. "Did you ever meet her?" 

"Only once, during Inauguration. Things were pretty hectic, as I'm sure you remember, and I didn't have much time to talk to anyone. I wish I had, though," I sigh, "from what Donna's told me she sounds like a pretty incredible woman." 

She nods. "She'd have to be, to raise someone like Donna." She catches my gaze with her own, and I can't help thinking what an eerily insightful person she can be at times. For some reason, though, I've always felt I could - and should - be absolutely honest with her. 

Maybe it's that she reminds me of my mother; strength, brains, and   
compassion. 

"I feel like I should be there with her," I say before I even realize the thought had crossed my mind again. 

Abbey simply nods. "You should be." 

I smile at her. "You tell that to Leo." 

"I intend to," she says, returning my smile. 

I blink. "M'am?" 

She gives me that look, the one that specifically says that nothing can get by her, and that anyone who tries is an idiot for the effort. "Oh, please, Josh. I was there the night that...I was there. I sat beside Donna for I don't know how long as she stared at nothing, oblivious to anything anyone said unless it was about you." 

I'm finding it a bit difficult to breathe right now. I seem to have this problem lately whenever someone mentions something about Donna. 

Abbey continues, studying the floor. "I've seen that look before, Josh. It was the look of someone who's just had the very earth beneath their feet shake." She pauses to take a breath. "I won't go into detail, but I had a very hard time while I was pregnant with Zoey. A lot of things happened during labor, and at one point things weren't going so well, so they made Jed leave the delivery room," she pauses again and looks up at me. "I remember seeing his face through the glass window in the door. I remember the expression on his face when he thought he would lose me. It was the same look." 

I can't speak past the tightness in my throat, and even if I could, I   
wouldn't know what to say. 

"Screw politics, Josh," she says calmly, "and go get the girl." 

I adore the First Lady. Have I mentioned that yet? Because I don't think I can say it enough. I adore the First Lady. 

"Thank you," I manage, "I need to talk to Leo." 

"I'll talk to Leo," she says firmly. 

I suddenly pity Leo McGarry very much. 

Abby stands, motioning for me to keep my seat. "I'll see you tomorrow." 

"Good night, Mrs. Bartlet." 

"Good night, Josh." 

*************************** 

The light from the parking lot filters through the raindrops adhered to the glass windowpane, casting circular shadows across my mother's sleeping form. Dad's head rests on the pillow next to hers, at an awkward angle from how he's seated in the chair, but I doubt he'll notice any of his own pain. He's too wrapped up in hers. 

I'm seated on the other side of her bed, facing the door. It's shut right now, as are the blinds on the observation window. We don't wnat anyone else to see how our lives are unraveling at the seams. 

I sigh and slide a marker into the pages of the heavy, leather-bound volume that sits in my lap. I've been reading to Mom from her favorite novel -"Captain Horatio Hornblower". She's a nautical junkie who's always had a fascination for old sailing ships. I have the sudden thought that she'd love Sam Seaborn. Me, I can't tell a mizzen mast from a capstan, and I only just learned that when a ship 'tacks' it means that it changes direction. It means it alters its course. 

I wish life could do the same. I wish I could just shout out an order,   
change a few sails around, and then everything would be okay. 

Well, if wishes were fishes... 

The door opens slightly and David sticks his head in. He'd gone to the   
cafeteria to get us and Dad some sandwiches, even though we knew we wouldn't eat them. "Um, Donna, someone's here to see you," he says, sounding extremely puzzled. 

"Who?" I ask. 

He shrugs. "Some lady named Sarah Leeman?" 

"Leeman? I don't know anyone named..." and then it hits me. "Lyman," I say, disbelief dripping from my voice, "Sarah Lyman." 

David nods. "That's it. She's out in the waiting room." 

I stand quickly, setting the book on the nightstand. What is Josh's mother doing in Wisconsin? She lives outside of Hartford, Connecticut, why is she here in Madison? It's got to be a mistake, right? 

But sure enough as I enter the waiting room, Sarah Mitchell Lyman is seated there on one of the faded blue chairs, a raincoat and umbrella dripping onto the floor. She stands up as I walk towards her, and I marvel again how kind the aging process has been to her. Josh says she does a lot of outdoors work on their property, and I guess it must keep her in shape. Her eyes, slightly darker than Josh's, are soft and clear, and the fine wrinkles only serve to enhance her features. 

Sarah holds out her arms and gives me a hug. "Hell, Donna," she says   
softly. I hug her back. We became pretty close while Josh was recovering. I've always suspected that she knows how I feel about her son, but she's never said a word. We used to stay up late in Josh's kitchen while he slept, drinking tea and discussing everything from apple pies to azaleas to Joanie, Josh's sister. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever told Josh that I know about her. 

"Hello, Sarah," I say, releasing her, "It's good to see you? What are you doing here?" 

She smiles at me. "I came to see you." 

I close my eyes for a moment. I should tell her that she didn't have to go out of her way for me. I should tell her that she doesn't need to put herself through this; that she doesn't need to be reminded again of how she lost her husband. But I can't help being selfish. I've come to adore this woman as a second mother, and I need her now if ever. 

"Thank you," I whisper. 

************************** 

"So where are you staying?" I ask my mother, using the phone on Donna's   
desk. Amy already left for lunch. I think I scared her more than a little yesterday, but at least she had the guts to come back. Which is more than I can say for the first two temps I went through since Donna left. 

"Well, I was staying at a nearby Ramada, but Donna insisted I take the spare bedroom in their house." 

I frown. "There's four of them. How large can that house be to have an extra bedroom?" 

"The youngest one, David, has an attic bedroom, so that leaves four regular bedrooms. You'd like this house, Josh. It reminds me of those old houses built by the robber barons for their mistresses or top aides." 

"That sounds like her family. Not that they were robber barons or the   
mistresses of robber barons. It's just that from what I know they're all history buffs." I take a sip of my coffee (decaf, thanks to Leo's demand that I stop fidgeting during staff meetings). "Any improvement?" I ask, though I'm fairly certain I know the answer. 

Mom sighes. "No, honey, there isn't. I spoke to Dr. White today - he's the oncologist - and he said it's only a matter of days. Hours, even." 

"Mom? Are you sure you're okay with this?" 

There's a pause, as though she's considering the question carefully. Which she probably is. Mom likes to protect me every bit as much as I try to protect her by pretending everything's fine. But lately we've been much more open and honest with each other. "I'm not going to say that it isn't a little hard," she says at last, "because it is. But it's harder on Donna and her family than it is on me, so I'll just have to get over it, won't I?" 

My mother is an absolutely amazing person. "Okay." I set my mug down and run a hand through my hair, a gesture I've also inherited from my mother. "Tell Donna...just...tell her I'll call her tonight. And tell her to call my cell if she needs anything." 

"Yes, dear." 

"And tell her that everyone says hello." 

"Sure." 

"And that CJ needs to know where Donna keeps her aspirin." 

"Okay." 

"And - " 

"Joshua." 

I sigh. "Alright. I love you, Mom. Take care." We finish, and when I hang up the phone, I turn to find Leo McGarry (of all people) leaning   
against the side of the bullpen frame. 

He raises an eyebrow at me. "You sent your mother to Wisconsin?" 

"My mother went of her own free will to Wisconsin," I reply, "You know her. Do you think anyone tells her where to go?" 

Leo smiles. "Fair point." At least he's smiling. That's a good sign. I think. But he didn't talk to me yesterday, after what I'm pretty sure was a meeting with the First Lady. That's usually not a good sign. "We need to talk," he says, pointing towards my office. 

"Yeah," I say, feeling a hollow little pit form in my stomach. I really don't want to do this now. I don't want to have to defend feelings I have every right to have. I don't want to argue ethcis or morality. For the first time, I find myself almost wishing I'd chosen another career, one where I could hold the woman I love without caring about what it looks like to the public eye. 

Wow. The woman I love...there's a thought. 

I lean back against my desk with my arms folded, and Leo closes the door behind him. He just stands there and looks at me, while the knot of anxiety grows a little larger in my chest. Finally, he sighs and looks down at the floor. Then he says one of the last things I'd ever have expected. 

"I made a promise," he speaks quietly, "to your father." 

I'm speechless. I think my mouth might be open, but there's no sound coming out. I'm not really sure what's happening here. 

"Noah called me about a week before New Hampshire. He told me he was   
counting on my to watch out for you. He made me promise I would. He said that we were never best friends, but we were good friends, and that's what mattered." Leo's still studying my office floor, and I'm pretty sure I'm still doing my guppy impersonation. You can't blame me; I've been blindsided, here. 

Leo shakes his head and finally looks up, but not at me. His gaze is   
unfocused, as though seeing back in time. "I'll never forget what he said after that. He said, 'The boy has wings, Leo, but they break all too easily.'" 

He locks his eyes on mine. "I keep my promises, Josh, and I return favors." Placing a hand on my shoulder, he squeezes it gently. "You stuck yourself right in the middle of the whole Lillienfield mess for my sake, so I figure I owe you one." 

"Leo?" 

"You and Donna deserve happiness. Just don't screw it up," he adds with a rueful smile, "because you'll regret it every time you look in the mirror." 

I don't care if it's unprofessional, I just reach out and give him a brief hug. I'm a tactile person, what do yo want from me? "You weren't on the other side of this?" I ask as I let go, though I really don't want to know the answer. 

Leo considers his answer for a moment, then nods. "I was, due to this   
little problem I have of not being able to see past the politics of   
everything." 

"When did you come by that insight?" 

"While the First Lady and the President of the United States were   
tag-teaming me." 

I blink in utter shock. "The President knows?" 

Leo looks as though he's fighting a grin. "Josh, you're talking about a happily married closet romantic. He's pissed, but not at you and Donna." 

I frown in confusion. "Then who is he - " 

"The First Lady. He lost fifty bucks to her." 

"They had a bet going?" My voice level rises into squeak zone. 

Leo shrugs. "Apparently it started when Abbey wondered out loud of you two would resolve anything before this Christmas. She has good instincts about these things. Well," he amends, "that and a Ouija board." 

I can't help but laugh. Is this for real? This can't be the way it's going to work, right? What's the matter with all of us? Have we fallen off a wagon somewhere? 

"That said," Leo sighs, "I really would like you to put off going to   
Wisconsin for a few days, at least. Henderson's going to bring back the Employment Non-Discrimination Act, and I need you and Toby to take   
meetings." 

I nod. "Yeah." 

"This is monumentally important, Josh, and I'm sure Donna knows that." 

I nod again. "She's a huge supporter of ENDA." 

"As is the President, so get with Toby and do a job." 

"Yes, sir." 


	4. Intellectual Pretzels:  Death and All Things Considered 4

 

INTELLECTUAL PRETZELS: DEATH AND ALL THINGS CONSIDERED   
PART 4   
**Please see part one for disclaimers and info. 

"Love makes intellectual pretzels out of us all."   
-Sarah Bird, New York Times magazine 

"Most humans have an almost infinite capacity for taking things for granted."   
-Aldous Huxely 

"Even monkeys fall out of trees."   
-Chinese Proverb 

*************************** 

This is a strange feeling. 

Have you ever known someone who could see through you? Not necessarily through you, but through the boundaries you build around yourself? You spend all this time putting up these walls, and then you turn around and realize that the entire time you were putting them up, there she was, taking them down again. I guess there's no mortar strong enough to hold out love. 

God, I sound like Sam. That's a scary thought. 

But it's so true. Every time I put up a brick in my defenses, Donna would stand there and shake her head at me, knowing full well she could take it down anytime she pleased. It's strange to know that there's a person out there who knows you so well. 

It's strange, but exhilarating at the same time. 

I've noticed that it's not the same with her, though. She's never tried to shut me out. Or maybe she did, and I've just never tried to get back in. 

Something I'll have to remedy. 

********************* 

I really think my heart is breaking. 

The window's open in my bedroom, and cold rain is collecting on top of the antique bed stand, but I don't care. That's the problem right there: I don't care. About anything. Weeds could grow up between the floorboards. All my hair could fall out. The earth might open beneath my feet and swallow this house whole for all I'd notice. 

There's just nothing here now but a haze of numbness marred only by a single, sharp, jagged thread of pain. It happened four hours ago. Only four hours ago the world shifted. I can't imagine a life without my mother here, and yet, I'm living it now. 

Only four hours ago my pale, fragile mother held my hand, her grip slowly going limp as she faded from this life. Her eyes didn't close like they do in movies. They were open, and I could see the light within them diminish as she died. 

I don't think I can ever forget that. 

This pain seems almost alive within me, tearing the flesh of my heart apart with its terrible claws. Am I melodramatic at this point? I don't know, but it's the only way I can express how much it hurts. I need to scream, or to cry, something to release it. But there's no one here, they're all still at the hospital, except for Sarah, who's gone to the funeral home for the third time in her life. At least she has some solace in knowing that it's not her blood who will be placed in the satin lined coffin. 

Without thinking, I dial a number I know all too well. Somehow I know he'll be there, that he'll be the one to pick up, not the temp. I don't know why I know this and I don't really think too hard about it. 

"Josh Lyman." 

The sound of his voice is so warm, so full of life, unlike the mechanic threadbare tones I've become used to from Jake and the hospital staff and even myself. Lately I've begun to think that the grieving shouldn't talk; they should just stay silent, like David and my father. 

"Josh?" I whisper, not knowing what else to do. 

"Donna? Donna, what is it? What's wrong?" There's concern in his voice. There's emotion and humanity dripping from his words, and I imagine the world he's in right now is full of color, not gray like mine. The pain claws itself free, and I'm crying over the phone, unable to stop myself, unable to form words, unable to do much else apart from curling up into a ball on my bed and sobbing like an infant. 

Josh, it seems, understands this. I don't know for how long, but as I lie here and empty myself of the pieces of my broken heart Josh tries to murmur comforting things into the phone, knowing full well there is no true comfort for grief. 

I barely notice footsteps creaking on the stairs, or the whisper of air as my bedroom door opens. I don't protest when Sarah Lyman sits on the edge of my bed, taking the phone away while stroking my hair back from my forehead. "It's okay, dear, I'm here now...I'll call you back in a little bit, alright? Yes, darling, you too," she says softly and hangs up the phone. 

It's all I can do to squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate on keeping myself whole; to not be split in tow by this earthquake in the core of my very being. 

************************ 

"Josh?" 

CJ's voice snaps me back into reality. I was remembering...well, I was remembering too much. "How long have you been sitting there?" I ask, confused. 

"Long enough," she answers. "Did it happen?" 

I nod. "That was Donna." 

"So I gathered." 

I stand carefully, favoring the knee I whacked off my coffee table this morning as I searched for my cordless so I could call Mom. Which ended up being fruitless anyway, as I'd forgotten about the time zone difference in Wisconsin. I didn't want to wake Donna if Mom had actually managed to make her sleep. Yes, I am an obsessive worrier. So sue me. 

"I need to see Leo," I say. 

CJ nods. "Yeah. Let me know when the thing is." And she mercifully leaves it at that. Donna and CJ have become good friends, united by a mutual loathing of what they term 'the Brotherhood'. I know CJ looks at Donna almost like a little sister, and I know that she's itching to call her to make sure she's okay. 

"She'll be okay, Claudia Jean." Which really means that I intend to do everything within my considerable capabilities to make sure that she'll be okay. 

CJ nods, thankfully. "Good, Joshua." Which really means that she will tear my nostrils off with metal pliers if I don't. 

I walk towards Leo's office in sort of a haze. I can't get the sound of Donna crying out of my head. I mean, I've heard her cry before, but never actually out of any real pain. She cried when I gave her that skiing book, she cried when we screened Titanic at the White House for Zoey's birthday, and she cried when her roommate's cat died. But it was nothing like the sounds I just heard. 

I need to be there now, I need to be with her. I can't sit here and let her cry like that, let her shut everything away like people do when they're confronted with an irreplaceable loss. Stuff like this just opens a great big hole in your life, and its all too easy to fall in without someone there to hold your hand. Believe me, I know. 

I know all too well. 

Margaret stands up as I walk past her desk, taking in the expression on my face. "Josh?" she says softly, laying a hand on my arm just before I'm about to turn the doorknob into Leo's office, "is Donna...is she okay?" 

I'm really tired of this game. "I honestly don't know, Margaret. But I'm going to try and see that she is." 

She nods. "You'll let us know when the thing is, right?" 

"Of course." 

"'Cause I'll be there, for her. She's been there when I needed her," she adds. 

I nod and feel a small smile come forward. "You're a good girl, Margaret." 

She smiles back. "I try, Josh." 

I open Leo's door and step through, not even noticing the other people in the room. As Margaret did, Leo obviously gathers what happened from my expression. "It happened?" he asks. 

I nod. "About four hours ago." 

"Sarah called you?" 

I hold his gaze for a beat. "No, it was Donna." 

"How is she?" 

"How do you think?" I say, not meaning the words to be as snappish as they sound. 

"Josh," Leo warns. 

I close my eyes for a second and sigh. "sorry. She's...well, not good. Leo -" 

"Go." 

I blink. "You're sure?" 

"Oh, go already. I'll get Sam to help cover for you, but I won't step in when he tries to strangle you." 

I smile slightly and shrug. "I think the Hill should be more afraid of Sam Seaborn on an ENDA kick than myself. Ever hear him argue the Equal Rights Amendment?" 

Leo smiles. "Can't say as I have. Kiss your mother hello for me and let us know when the thing is." 

For the first time I notice the other two people in the room happen to be Joey Lucas and her interpreter, Kenny, flown in from California (again) to take some polling data on ENDA for us. I swear, we're just going to have to move her permanently into DC. 

"Oh, sorry, Joey. I didn't even see you. Hey, Kenny." 

Kenny nods hello and interprets for Joey when she says, "It's good to see you, Josh. What's going on with Donna?" 

Leo and I exchange glances. "Her mother just passed away from breast cancer," I explain. 

Joey winces. "I lost my grandmother to breast cancer. Are you going to see her?" 

I nod. 

"Good. Will you give her my sympathies?" 

"Of course," I say. I really like Joey. I just don't love her, is all. Not like Donna. I hadn't realized before that it was that fact that kept me from asking her out, despite the opportunities I've been given. But Joey's still an amazing person, regardless. "We should be back by the end of this week, Leo. If you need me, I'm taking my cell and my laptop." 

Leo nods. "right." 

I look back over at Joey. "you mind calling me with the numbers?" 

"Not at all," she says through Kenny, "you mind not calling me every five minutes while I'm trying to take a poll?" 

"Funny girl." 

"Have a safe trip, Joshua," she says. 

I manage to smile at her. "I will, thanks. Leo?" 

"That's all. If I need you, I'll call. Otherwise, take care of yourself, and for God's sake take care of Donna. Unless you want to lose an arm or two to the First Lady." 

That's a scary thought. I clap Leo on the shoulder. "Right. I'll check in with Amy once I'm in Madison." 

"Okay, then. Oh, and I'd steer clear of Toby on your way out if I were you. I haven't had a chance to talk to him yet." 

I wince. "Thanks for the heads up." 

"You bet." 

************************* 

I'm running through the field behind my grandmother's old house. I used to love when summer rolled around and we could spend lazy days out here, enjoying the sun light and the smooth feel of grass beneath our bare feet. Jake and I had races every day, but there were never any clear winners. We'd collapse in giggles and stare up at the clouds, forgetting to check which one of us was ahead. 

I know I'm running, but I can't feel the grass beneath my feet. I can't even feel the ground. My body feels sluggish, as though I'm being pulled back into something I'm trying to escape. The green on the trees seems to be fading, everything rapidly turning brown, leaves falling to the ground, frost stealing the grass, and crows swoop in from nowhere the way they always do in fall. 

I realize then what I'm running from: Death. The last thing I see before my eyelids snap open is the dead gaze of my mother. 

I stare at the ceiling, not remembering if I'd cried out or not. I feel like I'm suffocating, like the air has become so thick it won't let me move. I throw back my covers with more violence than really necessary and cross to the window, shoving it open. I put up the storm window as well and lean out into the chill night. 

God, what is wrong with me? I feel like there's still so much bottled within me that I can't let out. It's like my insides have been replaced with cotton; I keep absorbing all this emotion that doesn't get back out again, and it's making me numb. 

"Donna?" 

I pull my head back into the room, startled by the familiar voice. "Josh?" 

He's standing inside my bedroom doorway, his hand still resting on the knob. "Are you okay?" 

There's a word for this. It's 'surreal'. "What are you doing in my bedroom?" 

"I heard...you sounded like you were shouting something...I just wanted to make sure you were okay," Josh says. 

I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the concept that Josh is standing in my bedroom. Any other time, I'd find this very interesting. "No, I mean, what are you doing here?" 

He looks a little sheepish. "I came up because I...I, ah, thought you might, you know...need someone to talk to. If you don't want me here, I can -" 

I wave a hand. "No, no, Josh. Stay. I just...I didn't expect it, is all. When did you get here?" 

"A few hours ago. I was downstairs in the kitchen with Mom," he explains, "I didn't want to wake you." 

"Well, it would seem I woke myself." My voice sounds bitter to my own ears. 

"Donna?" 

"Yes?" 

"Are you okay?" 

"I'm fine, I just had a bad dream," I say. Well, it's part of the truth. 

"Donna," he says, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him, "you're not okay, are you?" 

There's something in his voice, something in the way he moves toward me, something in the feel of his hands against my shoulders that lets me release everything. "No," I whisper, wrapping my arms around him and letting him hold me up. We stand there like that for I don't know how long, letting the moonlight grown dim as it starts to rain. Heaven's tears fall onto the ledge of the open window, imitating my own. 

***************************** 

The wrinkles in the plaster above Donna's bed make a shape that looks like a dolphin. 

This may seem a strange remark, but please take into consideration that I can't sleep, and have been staring at her bedroom ceiling for the past - oh, I don't know - three hours. I move my arm as Donna shifts beside me, pulling her quilt closer to her thin frame. I'd describe Donna as slender normally, but she seems thin now. 

It's chilly in the room, given the fact that Donna wouldn't let me close the window. Rain is collecting in puddles on the ledge and dripping onto the floor, but I don't think she cares. I really should get a towel or something. I move slightly to slide off the bed, and Donna rolls over and clutches at my arm, murmuring something. 

Okay, well, I guess I'm not getting a towel for the window. I hope Alexander won't care about the watermarked wood. I wrap my arm back underneath her head, and she settles on my shoulder. I have to admit, though I don't normally sleep in jeans and a sweater, I'm pretty comfortable. 

Maybe it's just the fact that I'm holding Donna, that I'm helping her in some way. I have a rather surprising insight that you can love someone so much that every fiber of your being will ache to be with them. I'm not usually so poetic, but then, I've never been in love before. 

I stare up at the ceiling again, and thankfully, I'm beginning to feel a little drowsy. I remember that I left Mom downstairs, but - as her life has proven repeatedly - she can take care of herself. Besides, my mother knows me. She knows I wouldn't take advantage of Donna at a time like this...doesn't she? 

Well, I'll make sure she does in the morning. 

Until then, I allow my eyes to close and drift off into the deep blackness of sleep. 


	5. Intellectual Pretzels:  Death and All Things Considered 5

 

INTELLECTUAL PRETZELS: DEATH AND ALL THINGS CONSIDERED   
PART 5   
**Please see part one for disclaimer and info 

"Love makes intellectual pretzels of us all."   
-Sarah Bird, New York Times magazine 

"Most humans have an almost infinite capacity for taking things for granted."   
-Aldous Huxely 

"Even monkeys fall out of trees."   
-Chinese Proverb 

**************************** 

A roll of distant thunder edges in on my consciousness, and I open my eyes slightly to see the flash of blue that lights up the room. The rain is falling heavier now, and my window's still open, but I really don't care. The thunder sounds again, and it's closer this time. 

I stare blankly at the ceiling, at the plaster mark that always looked like a dolphin to me, feeling suspended between sleep and wakefulness. Even between the barrier of blankets and clothing, he feels so warm and solid beside me. I can feel his chest rise with every breath, and his exhaled breath feels hot against my cheek. 

I close my eyes, trying to ignore the sensations building in me. I succeed for a moment or two, but then the thunder comes again, and something inside me answers. As close as I am to him, I still feel isolated - wrapped in this numbness that just will not go away, it seems. No matter what I do. 

I can't do this. I can't keep feeling so blank. I need to feel something else. 

Which is why I find myself reaching for him as the rain pounds outside and the thunder echoes down the street; reaching for him in a way I've never done before, in a way I never thought I would be able to. 

I don't think I fully realize what I'm doing, and I don't know if Josh realizes it as his arms close around me, as his body answers the needs of mine. 

And right now, in this moment, it doesn't matter so much. 

********************************* 

I once read a quote in New York Times magazine by a woman named Sarah Bird. It read "Love makes intellectual pretzels of us all." Never have I read a truer thing. 

My mind seems wrapped up in knots now. One moment I'm sure of what Donna needs, the next she seems to be telling me she needs something entirely different. I guess that's just what love does to you. It makes you unsure of everything. 

But what you don't realize is that the only thing you need to be sure of is the love itself. 

I've never been so sure of anything in my life. 

*********************************** 

Okay, there's got to be an easier way to flip eggs. 'Cause the system I'm using now doesn't seem to be working. To be fair, though, I haven't cooked breakfast in years, and even then it was limited to throwing an English muffin or a bagel in the toaster. 

But I happen to know that Donna likes fried eggs and bacon, so here I am trying to be Emeril Lagasse. It isn't working. It's just resulting in my constant glaring at the frying pan and an occasional four-letter word. 

Why am I cooking breakfast? Good question. 

The answer would be A) I'm a nice guy, B) I'm the first one awake and it's just one of those morning after rules, and finally C) It's a morning after. 

I feel a little strange right now. 

Not that I regret what happened. Not in any way, shape, or form. I just think that maybe it wasn't the best time in the world for it. Honestly, I don't think I realized what was happening until it happened. And I don't think Donna did, either, or at least, I don't think she had clear motives other than the need to be that close to someone. 

Sex out of desperation is not a good thing. 

This could quite possibly be bad on several levels. 

But I'm not going to let it get bad; I'm going to make it stay good. That is, of course, assuming it's a good thing now. Could my mind possibly be running in anymore circles right now? 

No. Probably not. 

And I'm burning the bacon. Shit. 

I scoop it out of the pan and lay it on a plate covered by a paper towel to drain away the grease, like I've seen Mom do. There was a reason my mother never let me help in the kitchen. I am a walking disaster. I still remember the time I added powdered sugar to the pie crust mix instead of flour. We were eating apple soup for weeks. 

I can still remember how hard Dad laughed when he saw what I'd done. Mom had stood behind me, leaning against the kitchen counter, attempting to be more polite and stifle her giggles. But she didn't succeed, and I had to suffer their jokes for at least a year or so. 

Which was nothing compared to the jokes I made about his war with the squirrels who tried to capture his birdfeeder like it was WWII Berlin. 

I make a promise to myself that if I ever have children, I will make sure to joke with them every day. There's always been a sense of humor and fun in my family, and I intend to keep it that way. 

I hear footsteps behind me as I turn off the oven eye and flip the haphazard eggs onto the plate beside the bacon. I turn around to see a very stony-faced Donna, which in my experience definitely qualifies as 'not good'. She sits down in a chair almost mechanically, her eyes avoiding me. 

Okay, I can do this. It's going to be okay. I'll just ignore the fact that my stomach has now dropped so far down it's practically in China and my heart just skipped a beat. Maybe she's just tired. 

"Donna?" 

She's still not meeting my gaze. I've got this feeling in the pit of my stomach, and it's not especially pleasant. I don't have any regrets...but does she? 

Oh, God. How could I be so stupid? 

"Donna...please, just look at me." 

But she doesn't. She sucks in a breath, closes her eyes for a moment, and then says "I'm sorry." 

Huh? "For what?" I ask, confused. 

"Josh," she sighs, "don't. I know what happened last night, and so do you. And we both also know that it's a bad idea." 

Damn, damn, damn. "Donna..." 

She holds up a hand. "Let me finish. I'm sorry. It was my fault. I started it. I just...I needed someone, that's all." 

That's all? 

Finally, she looks up. For the first time, though, I realize that I could always tell what she was thinking by her eyes - because now I can't. There's a guarded look in them now, like she's shut something off. This can't happen. 

"You don't need to be sorry, Donna," I say, taking a step closer to the table. 

She pushes up from the chair and walks over to the cabinet across the room. She opens it without saying anything, retrieving a coffee mug. Staring at it for a moment, she then crosses and places it on the counter by the coffeemaker, raking a hand back through her hair. 

"Just don't," she whispers, and my breath catches at the sound of pain in her voice. 

I can't just let it go. "Donna," I start, "I know with everything going on that this is - " 

"It's a bad idea. It was a mistake." 

A mistake?! "No, it's not," I insist, "you needed me and -" 

Donna turns around. "I just needed someone. Anyone. I don't want your pity, Josh!" 

Who said anything about pity? "Donna..." 

"No, Josh! I don't want to be some pity-fuck! I'm sorry it happened, and I'm sorry that this has to be between us, now. I'm sure if we try hard enough we can get back to normal." 

What the hell is she saying? Has she completely missed the fact that I'm love with her? I thought it was pretty obvious. "Donna," I try again, but she cuts me off. 

"I need some air," and with that she opens the back door and steps out onto the slate patio. Into the cold rain in her t-shirt and pajama pants, without a coat or umbrella. Is she crazy? Or is she just hell-bent on giving me a heart attack? 

Both, probably. Damn it, I will fix this. 

I slip on the boots by the backdoor that must belong to either Jake or Alexander, because they're two sizes too big. I trod out onto the patio where Donna's still standing, staring at the yellow oak leaves that are shaking in the steady rain. The chill to the rain makes me gasp, but Donna doesn't seem to notice. 

"Donna! Please come back inside," I say, my teeth chattering. 

She either doesn't hear me or just doesn't want to. 

"Donna!" 

Again, no response, but I think I can see tears on her cheeks. Oh, hell. 

I reach out and grab her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at me. "Listen to me, Donna. You're not a pity-fuck, okay? I'm not here out of pity!" 

"Then why the hell are you here?" she shouts back, her voice breaking. 

I close my eyes for a moment. Better now than never, I guess. "I'm here because I care," I say, "I'm here because I love you." 

"You what?" she stares at me like I've just grown an extra head. 

"I love you!" I shout, "I'm in love with you, Donnatella Moss, and it isn't going to change, so you'd better get used to it!" 

She's still staring at me, trying to comprehend what I just said. Suddenly, she just starts to laugh. Actually I can't tell if she's laughing or crying, and I think it may be a bit of both. And I think I am, too. 

Donna throws her arms around me and I wrap mine around her waist, brushing the wet hair out of her eyes. "I love you, Joshua Lyman," she says. We both laugh again and then we're kissing. I can taste the rain on her lips and the toothpaste in her mouth and I don't think anything has tasted so wonderful in my entire life. 

"Are you both insane! It's freezing out here! Get inside this instant!" 

We break apart, startled. My mother is standing there, and umbrella in one hand and the other resting on the handle of the sliding glass door. "NOW!" she shouts, and let me tell you, the woman can holler. Where do think I got it from? 

Once we're inside, she throws towels from the laundry room at us. "Idiots!" she exclaims to herself while Donna and I try not to laugh again. "Absolute idiots. Imagine, with no coat. At this time of year. Morons!" She whirls around to face us again. "The next time you feel the need to work out a problem, please do it in a place where you won't catch pneumonia, please?" 

"Yes, ma'am," I say automatically. 

She swats me and then starts laughing. It feels so good to laugh now. It feels so good to her Donna laugh again. My mother reaches over and kisses Donna's forehead. "It's about damn time," she says, "I thought I'd be in a wheelchair before you two realized what was going on." 

I pull Donna close, unwilling to let go at least for the moment. She leans into me, and that sinking feeling that had taken up residence inside me finally disappears. Mom takes one look at the stove and nearly screeches. "Joshua! Who let you near an oven?" 

"It was my fault, Sarah," Donna explains, "I let him wake up first." 

I sigh, exasperated. "I'll make the coffee." 

"You'll bring me a cup, right?" Donna asks with a smirk. I'm so grateful to see her smile that I don't even mind it when she starts to make fun of my eggs and charred bacon. 

I adore her. 

********************************* 

I'm in a very strange place right now. 

But strange in a good way. 

Josh is arguing with his mother over something to do with bacon. Apparently, he wants to redeem his cooking skills, which I frankly don't think is possible. He keeps looking over at me with this little smile, and I feel my heart jump every time. And I keep wanting to laugh, because it's all so ridiculously wonderful. 

I want to laugh, because I swear to God I can hear my mother laughing. The concept of guardian angels no longer seems fictitious to me. I can feel her with me now, I can feel her hand behind all this. It's exactly the kind of plotline she lived for. And I wouldn't put it past her to let nothing keep her from seeing her children happy. 

Not even death. 

For the first time, I feel myself beginning to heal. I'm no longer numb; I can feel everything with such clarity it could almost be heartbreaking. 

I feel alive. 


	6. Intellectual Pretzels:  Death and All Things Considered 6

 

INTELLECTUAL PRETZELS: DEATH AND ALL THINGS CONSIDERED   
PART 6   
**Please see part one for disclaimers and info 

"Love makes intellectual pretzels of us all."   
-Sarah Bird, New York Times magazine 

"Most humans have an almost infinite capacity for taking things for granted."   
-Aldous Huxely 

"Even monkeys fall out of trees."   
-Chinese Proverb 

************************ 

Sam's standing beside me, silent as the preacher speaks beneath a sun that feels slightly warmer than it has been over the last few days. CJ's here, too, on the other side of Donna. Margaret and Cathy are behind us somewhere, no doubt remarking on the fact that my arm is around Donna's waist as much as they're worrying about her. 

They were the only few that could make it. Nearly everyone else sent flowers. A lot of flowers. Trust me, Donna's kitchen is now practically a conservatory. It's a good thing none of her family have allergies. 

Jake is across from us, on the other side of the casket, holding on to David's shoulder with a death grip. I don't think the boy has said one word since I've been here. That can't be good. I make a mental note to talk to him, since Jake and Alexander seem to think they might shatter David if they try it. 

Speaking of which, Alexander looks a little better. Mom said she had a long talk with him. 

~~~~~~~~~ 

"You can't make the world stop because she's gone, Alexander." 

"I can try, can't I?" 

"You can. But you'll fail. I know. I've tried." 

"What am I supposed to do? Just accept it and move on?" 

"Yes." 

"I can't." 

"You can." 

"Mrs. Lyman..." 

"Sarah, please. And you'll do it because you have to." 

"I don't think I can." 

"Look, Alexander. Life is inexplicable and death even more so. And there's not a damn thing you can do about either. There was this one stream in the town I grew up in. It overflowed with the snowmelt every spring, and the current would be so strong that some of the little minnows that swam in it would wash up on shore. My friend and I would take pity on them and throw them back in, but they'd just get swept out on the bank again further downstream." 

"I see." 

"No, you don't. What I'm trying to say is that life is like that stream. No matter how hard you try to fix it, sometimes you just have to let it go." 

"Because I have to?" 

"Yes." 

Pause. "You're right." 

"I know." 

Laughter. 

"Do you know why we're alive, Alexander?" 

"Enlighten me." 

"Because we can be." 

Pause. "Very true, Sarah. Very true." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The weather for once was merciful as we all gathered here, in my grandmother's field. Dad still owns her house, the house where he grew up. The house of the woman who accepted us without a moment's pause. 

My grandmother Sylvia. 

The preacher finishes and the dirt is thrown, the casket lowered, hands are shaken. The funeral is over, finally. The preacher was a good friend of Mom's, and he used to come over for Dad's weekly poker game. But as much as I like the man, I swear I never heard a word he said. 

I was too busy listening to my mother sing. 

I could hear her, her voice carried by the slight wind, echoing through the rustle of dried leaves being blown about. From the look on Jake's face, either he heard it, too, or he heard something different. 

For once he looked okay. 

And I think Dad - though he still looks very pale - is moving on as well. I'm sorry I couldn't be much help to them, but then the blind leading the blind was never considered a good thing. 

We're sitting on the porch of Grandma's house, watching the crows gather in the field, swooping down from the maple trees. Sam Seaborn is sitting on the step next to me, his suit jacket off and a cup of tea in his hand. I appreciate his coming up for this. Sam's the kind of person who takes the concept of friendship very seriously. 

We sit in a companionable silence for a few minutes, with Sarah leaning against the railing at the bottom of the steps and Jake sitting in the grass. I look up as I hear footsteps, and meet the eyes of CJ Cregg. 

"Donna," she says, "would there be a particular reason why your brother and Josh are up a tree?" 

I blink. "Come again, CJ?" 

"They're sitting up what I think is a maple tree on the other side of the house." 

Sarah and I exchange glances. "Not again," I say. 

"It appears we now have two idiots up a tree instead of one," she replies. 

CJ and Sam look at each other and follow us as we walk around to the other side of the house. I reach down to keep my skirt from flying up in the wind, and my hair's whipping all around my face. 

But not enough to prevent me seeing what is definitely my little brother sitting on a branch in a tall maple tree, his gangly body framed by scarlet leaves. On a branch beside and slightly below his sits Joshua Lyman, appearing for all the world as though it were a normal occurrence for him to be sitting in a tree. 

Well, this is definitely odd. To say the least. 

My boss/lover is up a tree with David. 

Sam and CJ are just simply staring, not exactly sure if they should say anything. Finally CJ clears her throat lightly. "I told you he was up a tree," she says. 

Sarah nods. "Indeed he is." 

"Donna?" 

"Yes, Sam?" 

"Why is Josh up a tree with your brother?" 

"Well," I say, "you'll have to ask him that, I think." 

"Okay," he says. 

*********************************** 

"She died?" David says, still refusing to look at me. Is this a Moss family thing, or what? 

"Yeah," I say, softly, "she was only fourteen." I can still see Joanie smile the way she did when she knew a secret she wasn't about to tell. Sometimes when I close my eyes I can even hear her playing the piano in our grandfather's living room. 

"And your Dad died, too?" 

I nod. "Yes, he did." 

"But you still have your Mom," David points out. 

"That's right," I reply, "and you still have a sister who loves you, a brother who loves you, and a father who loves you. I'd say you're a little better off than I am." 

David sighs, and finally looks at me. "I know," he says, "I just...I like to get away sometimes. It's like I can make everything disappear, you know? Up here I'm not connected to the ground, I don't have to be chained by something." 

I nod again. "Would you believe it if I told you I did the same thing?" 

He arches an eyebrow at me. "Really? I thought I was the only odd one." 

I laugh lightly. "No, you're not, David. I used to take Joanie's old stuffed bear and sit up in this huge old pine tree that was near a stream about half a mile away from my house." I shake my head, remembering. "For a while my parents weren't sure of where I was going, but it didn't seem to matter since I always came back. One day I fell asleep (miraculously having stayed in the tree), and it was already night. I wasn't sure of what to do, so I just sat there. It was Dad who found me." 

David's silent for a moment, then speaks softly, looking out at the crows swooping over the field and at the fresh mound of earth that marks where his mother's new grave lies. "He must've been pissed." 

I shrug. "Not really, he was more worried than anything else." A thought occurs to me. "And he understood." 

We sit there for a few more minutes of silence. "Thank you for understanding, Josh," David says, and I hear his voice crack on the last few words. I think I finally got through. 

I reach up, barely able to touch his shoulder where he sits on the branch a bit above me. "Come on, David," I say, "let's go inside." 

I move out of his way and then follow him down carefully out of the tree. It's been quite some time since I was up one. My feet hit the ground, and I straighten up, picking up my suit jacket where I left it against the trunk. David looks at the reddish-gold leaves around our feet then looks back up at me. "Do you think they understand?" he asked, nodding towards the house. 

I smile. "I know they do, David." 

He nods, satisfied. He seems at first to be the quiet, shy type, but he's not. It's just that he's contemplative; he's a thinker and a brooder. And at this age, his sense of sarcasm is beginning to develop full force. 

Remind you of anyone? 

Yeah, weird, I know. 

I throw a companionable arm around David's shoulders, and we start to walk back towards the house. "You know," he says, "I think you're in love with my sister." 

I stop, surprised. I look at him and raise an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?" 

"Because you are," he points out. 

I open my mouth, close it, then open it again, a little unsure of what to say. "Okay," I settle on, "fair enough." 

"She loves you." 

"You think?" 

"I really do." 

"That's good." I like this kid. 

"Yeah," he says, "hey, we have an audience." 

I look over and see my mother, Donna, CJ, and Sam standing near the corner of the house. Alexander's walking towards them. "Why, yes," I reply, "we do." I can see Jake's face peering out from the kitchen window. 

David walks ahead of me, giving Donna a swift hug before meeting his father. He says something quietly to Alexander, and they walk off together towards the field. Jake gives me a thumbs up from the kitchen. Mom laughs at me, picking a small piece of bark out of my hair. "Hail Joshua, the miracle worker," she jokes. "I'm going inside for a piece of that cake Alexander's sister brought. Come in for some tea." 

"I will in a minute," I promise. 

She nods and wanders back towards the house, taking Sam and CJ with her. "Come one, folks," I hear her say, "show's over. Besides," she adds, "you promised to try some of my renowned apple pie." 

I think it's entirely possible that CJ and Sam are walking towards the kitchen as fast as they can without actually running. I don't blame them. My mother's apple pie is a miraculous thing. Even Leo McGarry obsesses over it. 

Donna watches them with a smile, then turns to face me. I stick my hands in my pockets and tilt my head at her. "Thank you," she says. 

"No thanks necessary." 

"What did you say to him?" 

I shrug. "What he needed to hear." 

"Well, thank you, regardless." She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear and her smile widens. "So I heard that your mom talked to my dad." 

"Yeah, I heard that too," I return her smile, "You think it helped?" 

She nods. "Definitely. He seems much better." 

"My mother's a wise woman." 

"No argument here," Donna sighs. 

I wrap one arm around her waist and pull her close as we walk back towards the house. "Let's go have some pie. Mom swears it can cure heartbreak." 

Donna laughs. "Right." 

"It can!" I insist. 

Her eyebrow arches. "Okay." 

"You underestimate the power of the Lyman mystique." 

"The Lyman what?" She apparently finds this very funny, as she's nearly collapsed with giggles. "Did you just say 'mystique'?" 

I sigh in mock resignation. "Yes, I did." 

"You are never allowed to go near Sam Seaborn again." 

I laugh. "I'm just saying..." 

"Fine, fine. We'll go have pie." 

I stop for a moment, just looking at her. She still looks thinner than usual, but the spark is back in her eyes. "I love you," I say, even though I know I don't need to say it again. 

"Yeah, you told me." 

I roll my eyes. "Let it be said that I made every attempt to be the nice, sweet boyfriend and you shot me down." 

"Idiot," she sighs. 

I would make a reply, but I'm too busy returning her kiss. For some reason she smells like cinnamon. We part and out of the corner of my eye, I think I see CJ nearly leaning out the window gawking at us, a plate of half-devoured pie in her hand. This is proven by the fact that the next thing I hear is "SAMUEL!" as Sam's head pokes into view, knocking the plate out of CJ's hands. 

"And these are the people running the country," I sigh. 

*************************************** 

Sam and CJ just saw me kissing Josh. 

This is probably not a good thing. 

"Donna?" he says, looking at me. 

I gesture towards the window. "Josh...they just saw us." 

He frowns. "Yeah? Come on, they have no personal lives, Donna. We're like fresh meat to them." 

"No, I mean...Josh! I'm your assistant!" 

He blinks. "Oh, that. Don't worry about it." 

"Josh!" 

"Seriously," he says, putting his hands on my shoulders, "it's fine. I talked to Leo." 

It's my turn to blink. "You talked to Leo?" I hiss. 

"Um...yeah. And Sam." 

"And Sam?" 

"Yes," he says sheepishly. "Oh, and ah..." 

"Who else, Joshua?" 

"The First Lady?" 

"YOU WHAT?!" 

"Well," Josh amends, "she started it." 

I put a hand to my forehead, wondering why the hell I couldn't have fallen in love with a less confusing man. "Josh, please...what the hell are you talking about?" 

He takes a deep breath. "Okay, here goes." 

And he's launching into some story that started back when I had that date with Dan Rydell of Sports Night. It follows through the day he watched my plane take off up to four days ago, when the First Lady of the United States sat in Josh's office and told him to "Go get the girl." 

I'm guessing I'm the girl. 

He's still over-explaining in that way of his, not quite looking at me. And he accuses me of rambling. I've stopped listening to him, really, just thoroughly entertained by watching him. Really, I mean I have got it bad. 

I hold up a hand. "Okay, so basically what you're telling me is that the entire West Wing staff and the President of the United States knows that you're in love with me?" 

He holds his breath. "Yes?" 

"And they're okay with it?" 

"Well, I think Toby might still try to kill us and Mrs. Bartlet had to have a 'meeting' with Leo," he clarifies, "not to mention the conniption I'm sure CJ will have, but otherwise, ah...yes." 

"This is really weird." 

"You ain't just whistling Dixie." 

"They're okay with it? Really?" 

Josh looks at me. "They don't have much choice, do they?" 

"Josh, you can't..." 

"It won't come to that, but if it does, I will." 

"Josh!" There's no way I could ever let him lose a job in the White House over me. 

"It won't come to that, I promise you. Even if I tried to resign, I don't think the President would let me." 

"Why?" 

"Because he's a romantic." 

"Josh, we really need to talk about this." 

He sighs. "We will, I promise you." He looks back towards the house. "Just not right now, okay? You need to relax." 

I don't think I can. 

His eyebrow raises, and he shakes his head at me. "I mean it, Donna," he says softly, pulling me into another kiss. 

Okay, yeah, for this I can relax. 

I love this man. 

  



	7. Intellectual Pretzels:  Death and All Things Considered 7

 

INTELLECTUAL PRETZELS: DEATH AND ALL THINGS CONSIDERED   
PART 7 (CONCLUSION)   
**Please see part one for disclaimer and info 

Ah, hell. You guys know the quotes. 

  


************************************* 

"When I wake up, well I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who wakes up next to you.   
When I go out, well I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who goes along with you.   
And when I get drunk, well I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who gets drunk next to you... 

Well, I would walk five hundred miles   
And I would walk five hundred more   
Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles   
To fall down at you door." 

-The Proclaimers 

************************************* 

TWO WEEKS LATER... 

The door to CJ's apartment swings open. I take in her black leotard and leggings, and the leopard-print mini-skirt, complimented by a fluffy tail pinned in the back, whiskers drawn on her cheeks, and a little cat-eared headband. 

Oh, this is just to funny. 

"Claudia Jean! You minx!" 

"This is a Halloween party, guys," she whines, taking in the fact that both Donna and I are dressed casually, "where the hell are your costumes? I'm not letting you in the door without costumes." 

Donna listens to the music coming from the apartment. "CJ? Is that the Sex Pistols?" 

"I used to have a crush on Johnny Rotten," she explains hastily. "Guys!" 

"Johnny Rotten?" I exclaim. 

"Costumes!" she yells back. 

On cue, Donna and I produce the two sets of alien antenna headbands they were selling in Safeway for a buck. As compensation for our mutual lack of holiday spirit (well, my lack of holiday spirit. Donna went along with me because she wanted to CJ's face) Donna also produces a very large bottle of good wine. 

CJ snatches the wine and waves her hand at us. "Come in already, O ye who mock me." 

Donna laughs and gives CJ a hug. "Happy Halloween, CJ. You look great." 

"Thank you, Donna. Josh, you still suck." 

I give her a kiss on the cheek, careful not to mar her whiskers. "Love you, too, Claudia." 

"Wait 'til you see Sam," I hear Ainsley Hayes say behind my back. I spin around, and find her dressed as the Statue of Liberty. Why am I not surprised? 

"Why?" I ask, giving Ainsley a quick hug. She's a nice person, despite being a Republican, and I respect the fact that she set aside her partisanship for a higher sense of civic duty. 

"He's dressed as the Phantom of the Opera," Donna says in a disbelieving tone before Ainsley has a chance to reply. 

I turn around again, and verify this comment with my own eyes. 

Oh, Samuel Norman, this is too good to be true. 

Donna and I exchange looks. Might be an interesting party after all. 

*********************************** 

It's pretty late in the evening. Josh and I are sitting on CJ's couch, watching the throng of people I never would've believed could fit in this apartment. Toby's enjoying the sight of Ainsley batting Sam over the head with her Styrofoam torch after an apparently stupid comment he made. People are laughing, spilling drinks, and getting half-heartedly reproached by a very drunk CJ. 

I lean against Josh, who's arm is around my shoulder, disregarding what other people in the room might think or say. Toby only cast us one look, and then he seemed to shake his head and resign himself to his whiskey and cigar. To be fair, I know it's only the press he's thinking of, the public reaction. Toby's actually a person who cares for those he calls friends - though he'd never let anyone else know it - and Josh and I fit into that category. 

Joey Lucas is here, believe it or not. Apparently she and CJ bonded over the ENDA polling. Joey has an older brother who's gay, and was fired two years ago from the Nevada school he taught at. She hasn't said anything about Josh and myself, but she came over and gave me a friendly hug earlier and told me she was sorry about my mother. I thanked her for the beautiful flowers she'd sent me. 

I can safely admit that I really like her now. If I didn't have first dibs, I'd say she deserves someone like Josh. He's really quite sweet, behind the front of shouting and ego and sarcasm he puts up. Besides, I love him. 

And he loves me. I haven't gotten over that yet. It's still a strange concept to me that someone I care so strongly for actually reciprocates the feeling. 

Whoever's controlling the music play John Hiatt's "Have a Little Faith in Me", and Josh stands and pulls me to my feet. "Josh," I laugh, "I thought you didn't like to dance?" 

He shrugs. "I don't, but I thought it'd be rude of me to not even dance with you once." 

"So glad I inspire such emotion in you." 

"You always have," he grins. 

"Jackass," I smile back, resting my head on his shoulder. 

I watch the people laughing and having a good time, so many of them friends. It's strange how you can be right in the middle of life and never really notice it. Maybe it's just that I've been reminded again how precious life is, how easy a thing it is to loose. I feel grateful for every smile in the room, every squeal of laughter, and every beating heart. 

Especially Josh's. 

I close my eyes, not wanting to think back to last spring, when I realized just how much of myself would die along with him. 

But it didn't happen like that, and now I'm holding the man I love. Fate's funny sometimes. She'll take something from you unexpectedly, but just as quickly give you something else in return. 

"Well," Josh says, "death and all things considered, we're doing okay, right?" 

I laugh lightly. 

"Yeah," I reply. "I guess we are." 

THE END 


End file.
